


Scars

by Gwynne



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: M/M, Written for a prompt from ollipop: 'Anything written from Ges's POV.'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwynne/pseuds/Gwynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt from ollipop: 'Anything written from Ges's POV.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [ollipop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollipop/pseuds/ollipop) in the [2011_bujold_fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2011_bujold_fest) collection. 



“Dear God, Aral, you are a beautiful animal.”

Aral was stretched out on the bed, his face pillowed on one arm. Every line of his naked body was totally relaxed. Ges sat down on the bed and ran his fingers down the well-muscled back, feeling the heat from velvet-soft skin, pressing deeper to test the solid flesh beneath. He felt the laughter before he heard it, “Bestiality now, Ges? There’s always one more frontier for you, isn’t there.”

“There’s not much we haven’t tried, my wonderful savage.” Ges couldn’t stop touching – the wide shoulders, the muscled arms, the smooth flanks, the firm buttocks. He planted a ringing slap across that perfect butt.

Before he could blink Aral had twisted, leapt at him and pinned him to the bed. Ges didn’t struggle too hard, just enough to feel that controlled strength dominating him. “Is it my turn to be tied up? The blindfold is over there in the corner. With the riding crop.”

Aral let his weight press down, their bodies breathing in rhythm together. They were silent for a long moment. Then Aral laughed and pressed his lips to the pulse in Ges’s throat. He trailed the kiss along the line of the shoulder, and bit hard. Not enough to break the skin, but Ges would carry the brand all day. Aral released his grip and rolled off the bed, “I need another beer. Want one?”

“Not bored are you, pet?” Ges followed him, rubbing his wrists. He was sorry to see that the marks from Aral’s grip were fading already.

“Of course not. But I’ve got duty in an hour. No more time for playing. Tonight. Maybe.”

Ges stretched out on the couch and watched as Aral wandered around the apartment naked, collecting his clothes. He loved seeing the muscles under that warm skin, seeing them tense and relax as Aral moved, loved watching that compact, perfect form. Aral was his joy and his weakness, the core of his ambition and the focus of his life. Seducing and corrupting Piotr Vorkosigan’s perfect son was pure – and impure – delight. But somewhere along the way his perfect plan trapped him too, he was as deeply under Aral’s spell as Aral was under his. Although sometimes he wondered if Aral cared for him at all. Maybe he was just Aral’s personal rebellion.

Ges smiled, “Go on, go off and play the perfect soldier. I have a surprise for you tonight.”

Aral dressed quickly, efficient as ever. One more fast, urgent kiss and he was gone.

Ges leaned against the window and watched that stocky form move briskly down the street. Aral hadn’t bothered with the aircar, he liked to walk the few blocks to Headquarters. Ges shrugged and went to find his own uniform.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

“Do we have to go to this party?” Aral sounded bored. Ges wondered when Aral had stopped enjoying their excursions into public events. At first Aral had enjoyed marching into the grand ballroom at the Residence, or a reception at a Count’s great house, and seeing the expressions everyone tried to hide, all those Vor looking as if they’d been frozen, or stuffed. And Piotr Vorkosigan, pretending he didn’t even see them, that was the best of all. Damn the old man and his pride, damn all Vorkosigans.

And damn him for loving one of them.

But Aral was bored now, bored with the parties and the drinking and even bored with shocking people. At the beginning he drank until he was riotous, loud in his complaints about the world. Now he drank with a driven ferocity, as if he was seeking some kind of anaesthesia. And he’d started being political, which for a Vorkosigan was an even more dangerous and rebellious hobby than screwing Ges Vorrutyer in the rose garden during the Emperor’s Birthday fireworks. Even worse, from Ges’s point of view, Aral had started taking an interest in his career again.

Ges had his own career on track. A safe berth in Ops, a nice posting in Vorbarr Sultana, some sweet semi-diplomatic work while keeping close to the centre of Imperial power, using his High Vor connections to slide up the ladder. As it should be. And Aral was probably the only officer in the Fleet who had even more strings to pull than Ges – and yet the stubborn idiot was determined to earn his promotions just like any other officer. Any non-Vor officer. He had the ability, true, but why bother? He was High Vor, the highest, and the whole point of being Vor was that you had the right to lead.

The right to lead… the right to rule, perhaps. Treason to even think it, but Aral was only a few heartbeats from the throne. And a wise man planned several jumps ahead of the game.

But he was losing his power over Aral. He could feel it. He had to get that beautiful, damaged, brilliant wild-card back under his control.

Tonight had to be special. Time to break new barriers, take Aral to a level that would keep them bound together forever.

Aral was late. His vid-call had been brief, “I’ll get ready at home. Collect you on the way.”

Now he paced through Ges’s apartment, unable to settle, “Do we have to go to this party?” He was bored with it all, bored with being shocking. Bored with Ges. He needed some extra stimulation.

Ges smiled in anticipation – stimulation was what tonight was all about, “I’ve planned something special. A little treat. Something fresh.” Ges forced himself to stay relaxed. Aral would pick up on any tension. And it was important to deliver him in the right mood, he had to be receptive. This was going to be a turning-point for them both.

The house was one Ges had often used before. For his special parties. It was owned by an impoverished Vorrutyer relative who was happy to take the money to play host to whoever, and whatever, Ges wanted. He glanced around as he made his customary flamboyant entrance. The usual collection of dissipated young Vor, town clowns, women of the demi-monde, some pseudo-intellectuals, a handful of rich prole social-climbers, and a couple of wide-eyed innocents brought along as sacrificial offerings. Ges was pleased to see a few uniforms, too – the core of a private network he was building within the military. A cluster of musicians played something slow and sensual, carefully not noticing what their social superiors were up to. Sweet smoke from incense burners hung in the air. The lighting was dim, small sections of the room brightly illuminated while the rest lurked in half-darkness. Servants offered trays of food right now – later in the evening, perhaps themselves.

It was early yet, the couches scattered around the room contained couples or threesomes sitting decorously chatting. Later they’d be showing far less decorum, and far more… enthusiasm. Ges noted a few of the ripest women for his enjoyment later. Lately Aral seemed most keen and inventive when one or two women were sharing the bed with them. The man liked variety, that was for sure.

But tonight…this would be something special. Ges drifted through the guests, giving a word here, a touch there. Technically the party was being given by the Vorrutyer cousin, but everyone knew this was one of Ges’s special evenings. The tension was rising as everyone waited for the real fun to begin.

In some of the dim corners couples, and groups, were starting to explore the possibilities of each other. A few couples danced, clinging together, moving slowly to the music. Small glass vials went from hand to hand, invitation to a chemical high far more intense than the alcoholic drinks could provide.

It was carefully set up. At Ges’s signal one of the guests stepped backwards, another moved an arm, and suddenly a tray of drinks when smashing to the floor. One of the guests, a young officer, scion of a High-Vor family, was dripping with Ges’s second-best wine, and looking suitably indignant. The target of his glare was a first-timer at Ges’s parties, a young maid fresh from the country. An innocent. She gaped at the destruction, then dropped to her knees to start scooping up the shattered glasses.

“Stop that!” Aral was striding over, all concern for the hapless frill. “Take care – you’ve cut yourself.”

In a few moments he’d taken charge, calling other servants to clear the mess and sending the girl to get the cut on her hand dressed. Ges watched, enjoying the tone of command. Aral really was wasted in Vorbarr Sultana, he should be striding the deck of a ship as he ordered some invasion or fought off a wave of Cetagandans. That lovely animal needed action.

Well, he’d get some – of a kind – tonight. Tonight Ges was going to channel that wild energy in a new direction.

He took his time setting it up. It was important to have Aral just drunk enough, but not too far gone, and there was a very small window of opportunity there – the man was so hopelessly unable to drink a decent amount. It was almost another of his acts of rebellion against the Vor, the way Aral couldn’t drink properly.

When Ges judged the moment was right he sidled up to Aral and slid a lazy arm around his shoulders. “Tried this? It’s the new one.” He tipped the contents of a small vial into Aral’s drink. It was a light dose, just enough to loosen that grinding self-control a bit more, and let some of those raw emotions loose. “And speaking of new, there’s some fun in the side room you might want to see.” He steered Aral towards the door in the corner.

Inside the room things were going just as he’d planned. The cluster of men around the bed were laughing loudly, calling out encouragement to the couple on display.

Ges kept his arm around Aral, urging him along, “It’s all a setup, of course. The girl is being well paid for this. But the boys don’t know that.”

The ‘boys’ were some of Ges’s special projects, four young officers who would, with careful training, form the backbone of his special network. Ges had plans, had a vision, of his power structure within the Service. Officers who passed snippets of information to him, who nudged events and appointments in a certain direction. No disloyalty to the Emperor, just a second loyalty after that. Ges knew about power, and the satisfaction it could bring.

Aral surveyed the scene. The four young officers surrounded a large bed. The maid who’d dropped the glasses lay back on the bed. Stretched out. Wrists and ankles shackled to the bedposts, struggling artistically as one of the men slowly cut away her clothing.

“And what’s this all in aid of?” Aral’s voice was mild, dispassionate.

“That bad girl smashed all those glasses. So now she’ll be punished. These young men will do anything we order. So, Aral, you get first call. What would you like to see them do to her? Or do you want to take a more personal role?”

Nothing bonds men together better than sharing something special. Ges smiled. What’s more special than a public rape? Shared pleasure, shared responsibility. Shared guilt. Knowing the girl was truly innocent, not just paid to pretend fear, was simply his little personal indulgence. He’d taken the time to find someone from Aral’s own District, a fresh arrival in the Capital, as an added artistic touch – the sweet stiff-necked idiot would never know, and it gave Ges the extra thrill he craved. Aral could use Ges for his personal revenge, but Ges would have the satisfaction of some revenge of his own.

Aral stepped closer to the bed as the last of the girl’s clothing was torn away. Her gasps and desperate pleas were very realistic. The first man knelt on the bed, pawing at his clothing as he nuzzled the girl’s breasts.

Ges nodded, “First man in. Someone time him, let’s see who can last the longest. And then we’ll find something to occupy our time while you all recharge before we start the more… inventive… approaches. Mark her up a bit, maybe – there’s a few whips around here somewhere.”

Aral watched, still and silent, as the young officer bit down hard on the girl’s breast. As she screamed the man finally fumbled free of his pants, pushing them to his knees, and positioned himself between the girl’s thighs.

Crying now, the girl looked over at Aral, “My lord – you’re him, aren’t you? The Count’s son? You can’t let them do this, please m’lord, Lord Vorkosigan, please – I claim protection, you’re my Count’s heir, you have to help me – please….”

The accent was pure upcountry Dendarii. Aral had heard it a thousand times, on his trips through the mountains, and from the lips of many of their servants. As a member of his District she had a right to claim his protection. That would never be part of an act, it was a right too important to mock, especially by anyone raised in back-country traditions.

Aral eyed the girl again, “You’re being paid for this.”

“My lord! I was hired as a maid – I just dropped a tray – I’ll pay for the damages – I’ve never – my lord please – I claim – I claim – “

Moving lazily, in an almost dream-like calm, Aral reached out and took hold of the boy on the bed. A simple twist to his arm and the boy flew through the air and impacted the wall.

Then, with no change in expression, and no impression of urgency, he methodically worked his way through all four of them, once and again, until they were crawling to cringe and huddle in the far corner of the room.

Ges drank it all in – this was his magnificent Aral, his beautiful animal, all pure strength and energy. This was even better than just enjoying the girl, they could do that any time. But he’d finally broken through that shell of boredom and distance that had been growing around Aral. This was the reality of the man, he’d demolished all four of those boys with perfect calculation, almost rejoicing in his power. All Ges had to do was tap into that violence now and then to give the man an extra release. Now he had the key to Aral.

Aral was releasing the girl, dragging some clothes from a cupboard to replace her shredded maid’s uniform, giving her a credit chip for fares and instructions on getting to Vorkosigan House. Still with that focussed calm, his violence released now.

And then Aral turned towards Ges, who realised in that moment that he’d misjudged his target.

Focussed calm – balanced on simmering rage.

Ges felt Aral’s hands at his throat, and for the first time in his life felt genuine cold terror. He clawed helplessly at his attacker.

They were soldiers, they were trained to kill. And they had, in war. That was different. Ges knew something had happened that day when his sister and her two lovers all killed themselves. Or each other. He’d long suspected Aral had played a part.

As he struggled for breath he looked into the face of a killer. And, finally, he knew Aral. Not cold calculation. It was burning rage underneath the surface. Soldiers kill in war as a duty. But Ges looked into the face of a murderer. Aral was a brute, a creature of rage and violence. Aral was killing him. And enjoying it. Ges could feel those iron-strong fingers crushing his throat, and looked into the eyes of his murderer. Aral’s life was all about keeping control, keeping that raw violence managed and tamped down.

Aral had told Ges he had a temper. And also that he rarely lost it. Now Ges knew why. Beating up the young officers was nothing. Just reflex. Killing Ges iwas for rage-fueled pleasure.

And it was going to happen. Ges was sliding sideways down the wall, borne down by that inescapable strength. He clawed at Aral’s hands, at his face, he kicked out, he tried every trick they’d taught him at the Academy. But Aral was just too strong. Those wonderful muscles that he’d loved so much were his death now.

The room was silent, only Aral’s ragged breathing and Ges’s desperate gasps as he flailed at his attacker broke the stillness. The young officers were barely conscious, and too terrified of this High-Vor contest to do more than gape. There would be no help from them.

Ges’s flailing arm knocked against a table, his reaching hand closed on a half-empty wine bottle. With a burst of final, desperate strength he swung, hitting Aral on the side of the head.

It made no difference, the man didn’t even blink. On the backswing the bottle hit the edge of the table, the sound of smashing glass loud in the room. Ges could barely see now, his vision was fading to dark clouds. He shoved the broken bottle towards Aral’s throat, slashing blindly.

Finally those cruel hands released him. Ges looked up to see Aral stagger back, his shirt bright with blood. He thought for a moment he’d done it, slashed the bastard’s throat, but then realised the blood was coming from a deep cut across Aral’s chin.

Aral gave him one level, measuring look – deciding whether to finish him. Ges knew he lived or died by Aral Vorkosigan’s decision at this moment. The two men faced each other, lovers, enemies.

No, not lovers. It was never love, Ges knew that now. Not for Aral. For Aral it was rebellion, hate, a desire to lash out at the world. For Aral, Ges was simply the worst thing he could find to do. For Aral, Ges had been self-hatred, almost a punishment.

Aral’s worst thing had been Ges’s best. For Ges, Aral had been a wild joy. And he knew, already, that he’d never find that joy again.

Aral looked for one moment more, then turned his back on Ges and walked out of the room.

Ges couldn’t help it, he staggered forward, “Aral, wait – Aral, I didn’t – I’m sorry, I – Aral, wait, let me explain – “

And that was why Ges Vorrutyer would never forgive Aral Vorkosigan. Why he’d find a way to take revenge, some day. Not for the affair, not for trying to kill him. Not even for walking away. But because when Aral did walk away, Ges begged. Ges ran after him and begged Aral to wait, to listen, to forgive him, just one more chance…

Ges Vorrutyer begged Aral Vorkosigan. In front of witnesses. For that there would be no forgiveness. Ever. No matter how long it took, he’d get his cold revenge.

Ges slumped on the bed, dishevelled and bloody. The young officers scuttled out, trying to be invisible. He could hear the party still going on, hear the buzz of gossip.

The long curtain by the window stirred. Someone moved out from the shadow there and walked silently to the bed. Ges looked up to see one of his special guests watching him. The boy was just about to go to the Military Academy, all ready to train to become an officer and take his rightful High-Vor place at the head of it all.

His guest frowned petulantly, “They didn’t finish.” Ges waited, wondering what was coming next. “They didn’t finish. The girl. You’ve got some interesting…toys… here, I saw them in that cupboard. Were they going to use them? I wanted to see what would happen.”

Ges looked up at Prince Serg, and slowly smiled at his Plan B. “Of course, Your Highness. There’s other maids out there, I’m sure another one will drop a tray soon.”

Plan B. One way or another Ges would stay close to power. And wait for the day he took cold revenge on the only person he’d ever loved.

“Let’s go and get ourselves a drink, shall we?”


End file.
